ONE  WOMAN 
TO   ANOTHER 

CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 


ONE    WOMAN   TO   ANOTHER 


ONE  WOMAN  TO  ANOTHER 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

CORINNE  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CALL  OF  BROTHERHOOD" 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


Published  October,  1914 


TO 
CORINNE   ROBINSON   ALSOP 

MY    DAUGHTER,    MY    FRIEND 
MY    VALUED    CRITIC 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


ONE  WOMAN  TO  ANOTHER 

COULD  I  FORGET? 7 

IF  I  COULD  PURGE  MY  LOVE 8 

JUGGERNAUT   

IF  You  SHOULD  CEASE  TO  LOVE  ME    ....  10 

"AND  MEN  SHALL  KILL  THAT  WHICH  THEY  LOVE"  12 

FORFEIT 15 

MIRIAM,  " LOVED  OF  GOD" 16 

FROM  A  MOTOR  IN  MAY 17 

SPRING  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 18 

SONNET  TO  A  SATYR .      .  20 

RUNNING  IN  THE  RYE 21 

BOB  WHITE 22 

JUNE  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN         ....  24 

INDIAN  SUMMER       ...  25 

A  FRAGMENT 26 

vii 


PAGE 


BY  AN  OPEN  WINDOW  IN  CHURCH 27 

MOUNT  BALSAM 28 

THE  METROPOLITAN  TOWER  FROM  ORANGE  MOUN 
TAIN      29 

LINES  TO  A  FRIEND  ON  PARTING  AFTER  Six  WEEKS 

IN  INDIA 30 

THE  FUTURE  OF  CHIVALRY 33 

VERA  CRUZ 37 

To  FORBES  ROBERTSON,  AS  HAMLET      ....  38 

"ABSENT  THEE  FROM  FELICITY  AWHILE"         .      .  39 

THE  POET      .      .      .      .     .•-...     .     .      .      .  40 

HOSTAGE 41 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE      .      .     .      .     .     .-    .     .      .  44 

LIFE,  A  QUESTION  ? 47 

SOLUTION    "*•-.     , 48 

A  KENTUCKY  GRAVE 50 

LOVE  is  A  TALENT        .........  54 

IF  I  WERE  NOT  so  YOUNG 55 

LOVE'S  ARREARS .     .      .  50 

\VmcH? 57 

IN  PRISON 58 

GOD'S  FAIR  WORLD       .      .      .     .     .     .      .      .      .  63 

GETHSEMANE 65 

SPRING  AND  GRIEF ..66 

viii 


PAGE 

AUTUMN  AND  GRIEF     .........  67 

MOTHERHOOD 68 

AFTER 72 

FEAR  .  73 


IX 


ONE    WOMAN   TO   ANOTHER 


ONE    WOMAN    TO    ANOTHER 

YOU  are  the  friend  of  all  his  early  years; 
•He    told    me   that   the   bond    was   strong   and 

close, 

His  comrade,  his  companion,  even  more, 
For  in  your  veins  there  flowed  the  same  hot  blood 
That  coursed  in  his, — your  mothers,  sisters, — born 
In  selfsame  hour,  linked  by  that  close  tie. 
Thus  were  their  children  knit  by  call  of  flesh- 
Often  he  told  me  that  you  never  failed, 
And  that  when  others,  with  averted  gaze, 
Would  have  him  know  his  own  unworthiness, 
Your  eyes  held  only  memories  of  the  past 
With  hope  for  fairer  future  in  their  depths- 
Loyal  and  loving  in  their  tender  blue, 
Fit  mirror  for  the  loyal,  loving  heart. 
Come  with  me,  then,  and  stand  beside  him  here; 
How  still  he  lies,  who  was  in  love  with  life ! 
Ah !  yes,  his  face  is  sweet  to  look  upon, 

1 


The  restlessness  *s  gone  and  all  the  lines 

Are  softened  back  once  more  to  vanished  youth, 

And  that  strange  look,  so  foreign  to  his  heart, 

Which  came  because  his  cruel  enemy  held 

So  fierce  and  firm  a  sway — it,  too,  is  gone— 

And  so  your  tender  kiss  upon  his  brow 

Falls  on  the  face  your  childhood  knew  so  well. 

The  last  words  that  he  spoke  were  all  for  you. 

In  fierce  delirium  his  accents  fell, 

Murmuring  with  contentment  "She  will  come" — 

And  now  that  you  are  here  my  bursting  heart 

Must  pour  out  all  its  anguish,  all  its  joy — 

For  joy  there  was,  though  now  this  bitter  pain. 

I  was  of  that  strange  world  you  cannot  know, 

The  "half- world"  with  its  glamour  and  its  glare, 

Its  sin  and  shame;  where  men,  like  ravening  wolves, 

Feed  on  the  bodies  and  the  souls  of  us 

Who,  either  steeped  in  callous  wickedness, 

Or  reckless  with  a  dull  and  hopeless  dread 

Of  cold  and  hunger  and  all  bitter  things, 

Are  willing,  nay,  are  sometimes  even  glad, 

To  yield  our  outer  selves  for  inner  warmth. 

And  yet  I  shrank,  for  I  was  young, — so  young — 

And  very  simple,  made  for  better  things. 

One  night  he  came  and  looking  in  my  face 


He  said:  "You  have  a  true  and  tender  heart, 
If  you  will  come  with  me  111  shelter  it, 
For  I  am  weary  and  athirst  for  love." 
Thus,  then,  I  went.     At  first  I  only  knew 
That  I  could  eat  until  I  had  enough, 
That  I  could  sleep  without  the  haunting  thought 
Of  what  the  dreaded  day  was  sure  to  bring; 
But  soon  a  great  and  mighty  passion  grew 
O'erwhelming  both  my  body  and  my  soul 
Because  he  was  so  very  good  to  me — 
Never  a  harsh  or  cruel  word  or  deed, 
And  even  when  the  fire  filled  his  brain, 
For  me  he  only  had  the  anguished  look 
That  seemed  to  pray  me  to  forgive  him  all. 
You,  who  have  never  known  the  fierce,  hot  fumes 
That  rise  and  choke  the  very  soul  of  man 
And  blur  the  tottering  reason  till  it  fall, 
How  can  you  judge  of  him,  and  how  could  she 
Whose  fair  white  bosom  was  a  thought  too  chaste 
To  pillow  a  repentant  weary  head? 
But  I  who  knew  the  evil  of  the  world 
Could  never  shrink  before  so  sad  a  thing; 
My  breast  was  ready  for  that  burning  brow, 
My  hands  to  clasp  his  hands,  my  lips  to  meet 
His  sad  petitions  that  I  hold  him  close. 

3 


And  so  the  mother  that  is  in  us  all 
Joined  with  the  love  of  woman  unto  man 
And  gave  me  strength  to  battle  for  his  sake. 
Only,  when  in  his  eyes  I  read  the  look 
That  longed  for  her,  my  swift  resentment  rose; 
And  sometimes  when  he  stroked  the  soft  fair  coil 
Of  ash-gold  hair  that  crowned  my  drooping  head, 
I  almost  flung  the  tender  hand  aside, 
Because  I  knew  he  dreamed  of  other  hair 
That  he  had  loved,  when  eyes  as  soft  as  mine 
Smiled  into  his  and  pledged  their  marriage  vow. 
Then,   sometimes,   friends   of  his   would   come  and 

speak 

Of  that  fair  world  of  yours,  unknown  to  me, 
And  afterward  he  would  be  lost  in  gloom, 
Or  quick  to  let  the  Beast  spring  out  and  grip 
His  shattered  being  in  relentless  sway. 
And  sometimes  they  would  whisper  when  they  went 
Saying,  "Poor  fellow,  he  will  die  some  day 
With  boots  on,  in  some  cheap  and  drunken  brawl." 
Then  I,  who  heard,  did  register  a  vow 
That  he  I  loved  should  never  perish  so. 
Look  at  him  now  in  fair  and  cleanly  sheets, 
The  picture  of  his  mother  near  his  hand, 
And  all  the  darkened  room  as  sweet  and  fresh 

4 


As  was  the  memory  of  his  mother's  home; 

For  when  he  fell  to-day,  I  heard  the  cry 

And  saw  him  lying,  and  I  ran  to  lift 

His  fallen  body  from  the  cold  hard  stones; 

With  strange,  undreamed  of  strength  I  bore  him  up 

And  laid  him  here,  where,  quick,  with  eager  hands 

I  dragged  the  boots  from  off  the  weary  feet 

So  that  harsh  prophecy  should  not  come  true, 

While  he  was  moaning  like  a  little  child 

In  wild  delirium  your  very  name. 

********** 

And  so  I  sent  for  you,  and  you  have  come, 
Although  too  late  to  listen  to  his  words, 
Yet  not  too  late  to  hear  what  I  must  say — 
Surely,  the  Christ  whose  very  name  is  love 
Will  hear  me  too,  for  long  ago  He  said 
Of  that  poor  woman  who  had  been  like  me: 
"She  has  loved  much,  so  much  shall  be  forgiven." 
So  now,  perchance,  my  prayer  for  him  I  love 
Will  reach  the  far  and  heavenly  mercy-seat 
Where  Christ,  who  waits  with  wide,  condoning  arms, 
Shall  welcome  him  because  of  what  he  did— 
Because  he  taught  me  what  a  holy  thing 
Is  human  love,  and  by  his  gentleness 
He  saved  my  vagrant  and  despairing  soul. 

5 


Then  God,  who  is  our  Father,  can  but  save 
His  erring  soul  by  love  that  is  divine — 
What!  you  would  kiss  me?  Yes,  I  take  your  kiss; 
We  are  both  women,  and  we  both  have  loved ! 


COULD    I    FORGET? 


I  forget  that  I  have  held  the  best 
Of  this  Earth's  treasures  in  my  fervent  grasp- 
Then  should  I  be  content  to  sadly  clasp 
The  wreck  of  beauty,  and  my  soul  might  rest! 

But  I,  who  thought  I  knew  the  perfect  whole, 
Must  still  remember  that  lost  ecstasy, 
And  so  this  lesser  thing  you  proffer  me 
But  sets  the  seal  of  anguish  on  my  soul! 


IF    I    COULD    PURGE    MY    LOVE 

TF  I  could  purge  my  love  and  make  it  pure 
*   Of  all  except  the  essence  of  divine; 
If  I  could  turn  to  crystal  flood  its  wine 
And  change  to  peace  its  passion  and  allure, 
Then,  like  a  holy  flame  in  paths  obscure, 
Lift  its  translucent  light  and  make  it  shine 
A  beacon  to  some  other  soul  than  mine, 
Perchance  I  might  my  loneliness  endure. 
But  I  am  weak  and  woman,  and  my  heart 
Falters  before  the  last  great  sacrifice, 
A  stumbling-block  to  stay  my  ardent  will; 
And  thus  I  must  accept  the  lesser  part 
And  try  forever  just  to  blind  my  eyes 
Until  my  craven  heart  is  cold  and  still. 


8 


JUGGERNAUT 

rT^HE  love  that  I  would  banish  from  my  heart 
*     Has  nothing  for  me  now  but  bitter  pain, 
And  yet  it  holds  me  and  will  not  depart 
Nor  leave  my  tortured  soul  to  peace  again— 
And  all  my  brooding  spirit  cries  to  God, 
Just,  for  one  single  hour  to  turn  Time's  wheel, 
Remit  the  sentence,  stay  the  righteous  rod, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  past  reveal. 
Let  me  once  more  believe  that  Love  was  deep, 
Impregnable,  unbartered  for  desire, 
And  I,  who  sowed  the  wind,  would  gladly  reap 
The  burning  whirlwind  of  its  flaming  fire,— 
But,  no !  the  adamantine  wheels  roll  on, 
And  faith,  and  peace,  and  purity  are  gone ! 


IF  YOU  SHOULD  CEASE  TO 
LOVE  ME 

T  F  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  tell  me  so ! 
*   I  could  not  bear  to  feel  your  ardent  hand 
That  waked  the  chords  of  life  to  understand, 
Hold  mine  less  closely;  no,  Beloved,  no; 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  tell  me  so ! 

If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  dare 
To  meet  me  with  a  masque  of  tenderness; 
I  could  not  stoop  to  suffer  one  caress 
That  any  other  had  a  right  to  share, — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  dare ! 

If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  fear— 
I  would  not  have  you  think  I  made  one  claim. 
If  your  great  love  should  pass,  there  is  no  blame; 
For  love  grown  cold,  I  would  not  shed  a  tear, — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  do  not  fear ! 

10 


If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  let  us  part, 
As  friends  who  part  for  all  eternity; 
Let  us  make  grave  and  reverent  obsequy 
For  what  was  once  our  very  soul  and  heart — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me,  let  us  part ! 

But  while  you  love  me,  keep  our  hearts'  deep  faith 

As  some  High  Priest  would  guard  the  holy  place; 

Let  me  not  see  the  shame  upon  your  face 

Of  one  unworthy  of  Love's  vital  breath, 

So  while  you  love  me,  keep  our  hearts'  high  faith ! 

Thus,  if  you  cease  to  love  me,  save  my  soul 
By  having  kept  our  love  so  pure  and  high 
That  if  the  time  must  come  when  it  shall  die, 
I  may  retain  my  treasure  fair  and  whole, — 
If  you  should  cease  to  love  me, — save  my  soul ! 


11 


'AND    MEN    SHALL    KILL   THAT 
WHICH    THEY    LOVE" 

"  AND  men  shall  kill  that  which  they  love!' 

**  Alas !  that  I  should  prove 
This  sorry  truth! 
I,  in  whose  eager  youth, 
Myself  did  dedicate 
To  true  love's  high  estate, — 
That  I  should  bring  such  dread  and  dire  fate 
Upon  that,  which  to  me 
Stood  with  the  Deity ! 

Yours  was  a  spirit  that  had  never  quailed, 

No  matter  how  assailed, 

Yours  was  a  heart 

That  would  have  borne  the  dart 

Of  each  indignity 

That  had  not  come  from  me, 

Nor  bowed  a  vanquished  head. 

But  now  I  see 


That  spirit  faint  and  dead, 
Because  I  failed 
In  fine  fidelity  ! 

I  cannot  make  it  true 

That  I  have  so  killed  you, 

That  my  strong  arm, 

Which  longed  to  guard  you  safe  from  every  harm, 

Has  been  the  weapon  that  has  dealt  the  blow 

Which  lays  you  low,— 

That  my  weak  Faith 

Has  done  you  unto  Death ! 

I  had  not  thought  to  yield 
To  any  man  my  right  to  stand  as  one 
WTho  wooed  the  fiercest  rays  of  Truth's  hot  sun 
To  break  upon  my  shield. 
And  yet- 
After  long  years  of  such  liege  loyalty, 
With  wild  regret 
I  pay  the  sad  arrears 
Of  bartered  Faith's  decree. 

And  you — 

That  which  I  loved  and  killed — 

13 


Your  anguish  now  is  stilled. 

You,  who  once  knew  the  gleam  of  perfect  things, 

You,  who  were  wafted  high  on  Love's  strong  wings, 

Now  fallen  to  earth  by  sudden  heaviness, — 

What  torture  to  the  one  who  struck  the  blow 

That  he  should  know 

That  you,  so  silent  now,  feel  no  distress — 

Dead  of  Love's  littleness! 


14 


FORFEIT 

JV /lUST  there  be  forfeit  of  such  gift  and  grace 
*  *  *  That  we  should  hear  this  faint  and  feeble  cry, 
And  see  frail  fingers  searching  helplessly 
The  frigid  marble  of  the  mother's  face, 
As  though  to  claim  a  loved  and  lost  embrace? 
Is  there  no  answer  to  the  fierce,  blank  "Why?" 
That  springs  unto  our  lips  resentfully 
Until  they  may  not  frame  or  prayer  or  praise? 
Would  life  be  fairer  could  we  understand 
The  law  immutable  of  sacrifice, 
That  we  must  lose  to  gain,  must  pay  the  toll 
Even  of  death?     If  we  could  see  God's  hand 
Perchance  our  forfeit  were  a  petty  price 
Before  the  wonder  that  He  shall  unroll! 


15 


MIRIAM,      'LOVED    OF    GOD' 

IWIIRIAM,  "Loved  of  God,"  my  little  child, 
*  »  *  I  anguished  so  that  thou  mightst  come  to  me, 
And  now  my  being  bleeds  as  poignantly, 
My  mother's  heart  can  scarce  be  reconciled 
That  God  has  called  thee,  pure  and  undefiled, 
Back  to  His  presence.     It  would  seem  that  He, 
Miriam,  "Loved  of  God,"  had  need  of  thee. 
Yet  I  can  still  rejoice  that  thou  hast  smiled 
And  lived  to  bless  me  for  this  fleeting  hour, 
For  in  my  soul  has  grown  the  wondrous  power 
Of  perfect  motherhood,  the  one  sublime 
And  stainless  passion  of  the  human  heart, 
And  though  our  God  has  willed  that  we  should  part, 
I  am  a  mother  to  the  end  of  time ! 


16 


FROM    A    MOTOR    IN    MAY 

THE  leaves  of  Autumn  and  the  buds  of  Spring 
Meet  and  commingle  on  our  winding  way— 
And  we,  who  glide  into  the  heart  of  May, 
Sense  in  our  souls  a  sudden  quivering. 
What  though  the  flash  of  blue  or  scarlet  wing 
Bid  us  forget  the  night  in  dawning  day, 
Skies  of  November,  sullen,  sad,  and  gray, 
Once  hung  above  this  withered  covering. 
There  is  no  Spring  that  Autumn  has  not  known, 
Nor  any  Autumn  Spring  has  not  divined,— 
The  odor  of  dead  flowers  on  the  wind 
Shall  but  enrich  a  fairer  blossoming, 
And  though  they  shiver  from  a  breeze  outblown, 
The  leaves  of  Autumn  guard  the  buds  of  Spring. 


17 


SPRING    ON    THE    MOUNTAIN 

JOVE  of  mine,  come  climb  the  height 
*-^  Far  beyond  the  thirsty  plain, 
There  we'll  find  our  lost  delight, 
There  the  Spring  is  born  again  ! 
High  above  this  dreamy  dell 
Where  her  first-born  flowers  fade 
We  shall  see  her  in  the  spell 
Of  her  coming.     In  the  glade 

Where  the  balsam  branches  spread 
Shadows  o'er  the  deeper  blue 
Of  the  violets  we  thought  dead, 
There  the  bellwort's  golden  hue 
Rivals  still  the  sunlight's  gleam, — 
Come !  my  heart  is  wild  and  gay 
With  the  glory  of  the  dream 
Of  a  reincarnate  May ! 
18 


Love  of  mine,  I  cannot  wait, 
For  our  joy  attends,  aloof- 
Let  us  go  with  hearts  elate 
There  to  put  it  to  the  proof. 
AYhat  if,  as  we  meet  the  Spring 
Evanescent,  frail  and  fair, 
Swift,  on  its  elusive  wing, 
Our  lost  youth  should  greet  us  there ! 


19 


SONNET    TO    A    SATYR 

LINES   WRITTEN   FOR   A   FIGURE    CARVED    BY   PHILIP 
SMITH 


WILD   creature  of  the  woods  whose  merry 
hoof 

Has  trampled  many  a  fine  and  tender  blade 
Amid  the  forest  where  remote,  aloof, 
Thou  sportest  in  nymph-haunted  sylvan  glade. 
Anon,  with  reed  against  thy  mirthful  lips, 
Pan's  music  thou  evokest,  shrill  and  clear, 
Until  the  flying  bird,  affrighted,  dips 
Her  far  spread  wings  that  she  may  pause  and  hear 
What  message  she  may  find  of  swift  alarm 
In  your  quick  note;  but  soon  again  she  sweeps 
The  broad  horizon  without  thought  of  harm, 
Seeing  thee  lie  there  while  Dame  Nature  keeps 
Her  tender  watch  above  thy  graceful  rest, 
Holding  thy  form  against  her  loving  breast. 


RUNNING    IN    THE    RYE 

THERE'S  a  boy,  a  little  fellow, 
And  he's  running  in  the  rye- 
Tumbled  hair  with  tints  of  yellow, 
And  the  color  of  the  sky 

Shining  in  the  starry  wonder  of  his  deep  and  dreamy 
eye. 

How  he  races,  as  he  chases 
First  a  gleaming  butterfly, 
Swift  to  follow  then  a  swallow — 
Dipping,  floating,  sailing  by, 

Skimming   o'er   the   brimming   billows    of   the   un 
dulating  rye! 

He  is  Spring-time,  he  is  sing-time, 
And  the  joy  that  grief  has  slain 
Wells  within  me  like  a  torrent 
Till  it  purges  me  of  pain— 
And  the  passion  that  I  bear  him 
Floods  my  heart  with  youth  again ! 

21 


BOB    WHITE 

I  HAVE  stumbled  in  the  stubble, 
I  have  lingered  in  the  lane, 
I  have  taken  every  trouble 

Just  to  hear  your  voice  again, 
For  I  want  to  see  you  closer, 

Though  I'm  sure  that  you  are  plain ! 

Now  I  know  just  how  a  lover 
Feels  about  a  "hot  pursuit." 

It  was  broiling  in  the  clover, 
And  I  could  have  been  a  brute 

If  I  only  might  have  found  you, 
But  you  suddenly  were  mute ! 

After  singing  all  the  morning — 
Sometimes  late  into  the  night — 

When  I  follow — without  warning 
Then  you  take  to  shameless  flight, 

For  I  never,  never  find  you, 
Most  elusive  Robert  White! 


You're  delusive,  Mr.  Bobby— 
That  is  why  I  like  you  so. 

You're  intrusive,  that's  your  hobby, 
Or  at  least  you  strike  me  so — 

You're  exclusive  and  so  snobby, 
All  your  traits  are  poor,  I  know. 

Yet  I  stumble  in  the  stubble, 

And  I  linger  in  the  lane. 
Pray,  why  do  I  take  such  trouble 

When  I  hear  your  note  again? 
For  I  know  that  if  I  found  you 

I  should  think  you  very  plain ! 


JUNE    ON    THE    MOUNTAIN 

THERE'S  a  rhododendron  thicket 
Where  the  Laurel  River  flows, 
Shining  leaf  and  gleaming  blossom, 
Pearly  white  and  radiant  rose, 
Shading  deep,  and  ever  deeper 
Where  the  richer  purple  glows. 

June  is  waning  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  kalmia's  petals  fall, 
But  the  rhododendron  thicket 
Rises  like  a  glistening  wall- 
Twining,  blinding  all  our  pathway 
Under  hemlocks  straight  and  tall. 

As  the  sun  sinks  over  Round  Top, 
All  the  glittering  bud  and  bloom 
Seem  to  vanish  in  the  shadow 
Of  the  valley's  sudden  gloom- 
Winds  amid  the  pines  primeval 
Shiver  with  the  summer's  doom ! 
24 


INDIAN    SUMMER 

fallacy  of  Nature  whose  pale  skies 
Would  cheat  us  with  a  mockery  of  Spring, 
As  though  behind  them  undiscovered  lies 
The  great  renewal, — Indian  Summer, — bring 
Back  to  my  heart  the  glory  that  was  June, 
Before  the  withered  bud,  the  fallen  leaf. 
Mirage  of  Autumn  hours — I  commune 
Once  more  with  joy's  fulfilment  in  the  brief 
Sweet  ecstasy  that  you  afford  the  heart. 
I  yield  in  acquiescence,  lulled  by  scent 
Wafted  from  breezes  that  have  played  their  part 
In  softer  moments;  now,  alas !  but  lent 
By  Nature  in  a  garment  of  disguise 
To  blind,  with  sweets  foregone,  my  willing  eyes. 


A    FRAGMENT 

!  quiet  hour  of  happy  vagrancy! 
To  float  upon  the  river's  tranquil  breast, 
Content  to  lie  and  watch  how  aimlessly 
It  follows  its  meandering,  random  quest 
Through    meadows    where    the    noontide's    drowsy 

hush 
Is  only  quickened  by  a  sylvan  thrush. 

Apart,  as  though  in  some  far  golden  dream, 
I  lie  and  muse;  with  indolent  delight 
I  catch  the  shadows  where  the  lilies  gleam 
In  serried  rows  of  yellow  and  of  white, 
And  wonder  that  the  world  is  so  in  tune — 
Till  I  remember  you  are  here, — and  June! 


BY  AN  OPEN  WINDOW  IN 
CHURCH 

T   HEAR  the  music  of  the  murmuring  breeze, 
*   It  mingles  with  the  preacher's  quiet  word; 
Dim,  holy  memories  are  waked  and  stirred, 
I  seem  to  touch  once  more  my  mother's  knees. 
Christ's  human  love,  His  spirit  mysteries 
Envelop  me.     It  is  as  though  I  heard 
An  angel  choir  in  the  singing  bird 
That  floats  above  the  fair  full-foliaged  trees. 
The  old  sweet  Faith  is  singing  in  my  breast 
With  peace  in  Nature's  summer  subtly  blent, 
All  of  my  being  breathes  a  deep  content — 
Life  and  its  unremitting,  baffled  quest 
Fade  into  this  rich  sense  of  perfect  rest— 
My  soul,  renewed,  is  steeped  in  sacrament. 


MOUNT    BALSAM 

T   STAND  upon  the  heights  beneath  the  blue, 
*   Wide,  sunlit  spaces  of  a  sky,  cloud-torn. 
Below,  far  ranges  on  my  vision  dawn, 
Transfused  in  soft  and  amethystine  hue. 
I  feel,  perchance,  as  some  great  god  would  do 
At  the  first  break  of  an  Olympian  morn, 
When  to  his  primal  senses  freshly  borne, 
He  caught  the  wonder  of  the  world  he  knew. 
So  might  Apollo  thrill,  when  flying  rein 
And  fiery  chariot  flung  the  day  outspread; 
Thus  Proserpine,  as  all  the  fields  of  grain 
Blossomed  beneath  her  cool,  creative  tread; 
Or  Jupiter,  with  joy  that  stabbed  like  pain, 
Looked  in  the  eyes  of  Juno,  newly  wed ! 


THE  METROPOLITAN  TOWER 
FROM  ORANGE  MOUNTAIN 

ANT  oval  opal,  shining  in  the  mist, 
Set  amid  battlements  which,  like  a  dream, 
Some  fairy  palace  guarding  close  would  seem. 
Shot  through  with  azure  and  with  amethyst, 
You  rise  a  beacon,  by  the  breezes  kissed, 
Forever  beckoning,  wooing,  as  the  gleam 
In  longing  eyes  that  wait  at  some  dear  tryst. 
Like  a  mirage  in  fever-fetid  lands 
Luring  the  traveller  from  the  heat  accursed, 
You  seem  a  magic  thing  not  built  with  hands, 
But  moulded  to  allay  our  vision's  thirst. 
Above  the  sullen  city's  sordid  slime 
You  point  us  upward  to  the  far  sublime ! 


LINES    TO    A    FRIEND    ON 

PARTING   AFTER    SIX 

WEEKS    IN    INDIA 


fellow-traveller,  pleasant  friend; 
'Tis  sad  we  near  our  journey's  end, 
And  now  the  "parting  of  the  ways" 
Hangs  like  a  pall  upon  our  days— 
An  "Indian  Summer"  we  have  spent 
With  which  the  winter  weeks  have  blent 
Until  we  really  hardly  knew 
Which  season  'twas;  for  skies  so  blue 
Have  crowned  so  many  charming  hours 
It  surely  was  the  "time  of  flowers." 
Please  don't  forget  your  comrade  when 
The  busy  world  shall  claim  you,  then 
A  special  loyalty  'twould  be 
To  give  a  wandering  thought  to  me,  — 
A  train  of  thought  just  send  my  way 
As  long  as  up  to  Mandalay  ! 
30 


Remember  Ahmedabad's  procession 
Where  we  were  seized  by  an  obsession 
For  Hindu  weddings;  wreathed  in  flowers 
We  whiled  away  the  twilight  hours— 
And  Udaipur !  ah  !  fairy  palace, 
A  "wonderland"  where  many  an  "Alice" 
Might  lose  her  way  in  happy  dreaming, 
And  soon  forget  to  be,  in  seeming ! 
Oh  !  silent  cranes  that  fly  to  rest 
Above  the  water's  placid  breast, 
And  light  that  flushes  as  it  closes 
And  turns  the  sky  to  ash  of  roses,— 
Full  long,  in  memory's  amber  pressed, 
Will  dwell  that  scene  I  love  the  best. 
Then  Chitore's  towers  of  Victory 
Against  a  dark  and  murky  sky, 
They  dominate  the  long-dead  past, 
And  teach  us  Beauty's  worth  at  last. 
From  Delhi  and  from  Agra,  too, 
We  learn  that  Art  and  Love  are  true; 
We  prayed  before  the  Taj  Mahal 
That  stands  a  living  seneschal, 
To  guard  a  love  that  cannot  die 
For  love  outlives  all  history. 
And  once  again  our  souls  replied 
31 


When  Sunrise  on  its  crimson  tide 
Swept  over  Kinchin  junga's  height 
And  bade  the  day  destroy  the  night! 

It  seems  to  me  when  we  respond 
To  sights  like  these,  a  subtle  bond 
Is  forged, — and  never  heart  from  heart 
Can  after  such  a  union  part— 
And  so  though  oceans  roll  between 
We're  ever  linked  in  what  has  been — 
"Es  ist  so  schon  gewesen,"  Friend, 
That  such  a  tie  can  never  end! 


THE    FUTURE    OF    CHIVALRY 

LINES   READ   AT   A   DEBATE 

WHAT  shall  become  of  Chivalry? 
The  very  word  spells  Arcady— 
And  visions  o'er  my  fancy  play 
Of  those  brave  knights  of  yesterday ! 
Launcelot  and  Bors  and  young  Gawaine 
Go  tilting  through  the  woods  again, 
The  shadowy  woods  where  lutes  were  strung 
And  love-knots  from  the  branches  hung; 
Where  lovely  maiden  in  distress, 
Soft  shielded  by  her  loveliness 
Had  but  to  call  to  any  swain 
To  rescue  her  from  any  pain. 
The  modern  Launcelot,  half  a  knight, 
Perchance  might  leave  her  to  her  plight. 
While  modern  Bors  is  spelled  with  "e," 
There  were  no  bores  in  Arcady! 
And  modern  Gawaine,  worst  of  all, — 
33 


Is  only  summoned  when  things  pall, 
And  then,  alas  !  for  him — poor  swain— 
His  name — dismembered — spells  but  gain  ! 
And  so,  alack-a-day  !     Ah,  me  ! 
What  shall  become  of  Chivalry? 

Fair  Woman,  we  must  turn  to  you — 
(In  any  stress  we   always  do) 
The  future  of  this  gracious  art, 
Lies  only  in  your  subtle  heart, 
And  would  you  not  confess  it  lost, 
Just  pause  awhile  and  count  the  cost. 
Through  you  alone  it  must  survive, 
Man  cannot  keep  this  hope  alive — 
Dear  Chivalry,  a  beggar,  prays 
That  you  should  save  him  from  disgrace. 
That  you  should  in  his  cause  enlist, 
Though  Suffragette,  or  Suffragist. — 
Forget  there  is  a  Bernard  Shaw— 
Or  "Self-expression" — new-made  law — 
Forget  Eugenics,  put  aside 
The  many  modern  fads  allied, 
"Sex  problems"  of  biology, 
34 


And  all  the  strange  doxology 
That  rings  with  every  ill  and  ism 
That  color  Life's  illusive  prism. 
If  you  would  keep  your  old-time  place 
Call  back  the  half-forgotten  grace 
That  haloed  love,  and  hallowed  life, 
And  made  the  game  seem  worth  the  strife — 
And  put  aside  the  fallacy 
That  one  can  be  one's  own  "per  se. " 
One's  life  can  never  be  one's  own, 
Too  strong  the  grasp,  too  deep  the  groan 
Of  other  lives  that  grip  the  soul 
And  stand  between  us  and  our  goal; 
For  life  is  like  a  giant  tree 
That  stretches  up  right  valiantly, 
But  every  branch  must  brush  another, 
And  every  tendril  bind  a  brother ! 
So,  would  you  keep  fair  Chivalry, 
Don't  crush  it  by  your  "right  to  be 
Just  your  own  self " —Put  "Self-expression" 
Away  with  "Cubes"  and  "Post-impression." 
Give  heart,  and  soul,  and  love  a  chance, 
And  happiness,  with  song  and  dance 
35 


And  praise  and  prayer  and  gracious  things, 

That  lift  us  from  the  earth  on  wings. 

Oh,  Woman,  give  us  back  our  right 

To  simple  things  of  deep  delight. 

Just  be  a  woman,  if  you  can, 

And  Chivalry  '11  come  back  to  man ! 


36 


VERA    CRUZ 

THEY  called  for  the  Youth  of  the  nation, 
And  swift  at  the  call, 
Marines  and  the  Middies  were  ready 
To  fight  and  to  fall. 

They  dreamed  of  a  past  that  was  glory, 

And  glory  to  be, 
Of  a  flag  that  was  waving  in  triumph 

On  land  and  on  sea. 

No  war !  But  a  mother  is  weeping, 

A  father  grown  old- 
No  war !  But  a  harvest  is  reaping 

Of  hearts  that  are  cold. 

No  war !  But  the  Country  was  calling 
And  theirs  not  to  choose, 

The  North  and  the  South  had  their  heroes, 
And  so — Vera  Cruz  ! 
37 


TO    FORBES    ROBERTSON,    AS 
HAMLET 

INTERPRETER  of  mighty  moods  and  men, 
*   Creator  of  a  Hamlet  so  supreme, 
Shakespeare's  incarnate  thought  is  born  again 
To  shape  us  Life — the  substance  and  the  dream. 
And  yet  thy  very  Hamlet  falsifies 
His  own  sad  words.     Imperious  Csesar's  clay 
May  stop  a  hole,  but  Csesar's  will  denies 
The  earth,  the  ages,  and  their  brief  decay. 
The  immemorial  cycles  count  him  great, 
Just  as  forever  from  the  wheel  of  Fame, 
Each  revolution  shall  but  dedicate 
Another  spark  to  thy  immortal  name. 
"The  rest  is  silence." — Words  may  not  impart 
The  majesty  and  magic  of  thy  art. 


38 


ABSENT   THEE  FROM   FELICITY 
AWHILE" 

TO  J.  S.  E. 

BSENT  thee  from  felicity  awhile"— 

Your  voice,  sonorous,  lingers  on  the  line, 
I  see  the  tender  ardor  of  your  smile 
And  meet   your    eyes    that    claim    the   thought   in 

mine. 

'Twould  seem  you  answer  only  to  the  sound 
Of  Shakespeare's  melody,  your  smile  and  eyes 
Though  lit  with  depth  of  meaning,  have  not  found 
The  desolation  that  half  hidden  lies 
Beneath  the  genius  of  the  perfect  word; 
But  I,  being  woman,  not  alone  to  art, 
But  to  the  world's  great  loneliness  am  stirred, 
Conscious  of  all  the  emptiness  of  heart 
That  I  shall  feel  when  you  no  more  for  me 
With  loyal  love  can  make  felicity ! 


39 


THE    POET 

THE  Poet  should  be  one  who  sings, 
Whose  rhythmic  music  lilts  and  rings 
With  images  inspired; 
And  he  must  be  the  Seer  who  sees 
Beyond  his  utmost  melodies, 
Until,  with  soul  afired, 
He  brings  the  waiting  world  the  word 
That  only  Seer  and  Singer  heard ! 


40 


HOSTAGE 

TIFE,  wilt  thou  wait  awhile 

*— '  And  let  me  smile? 

Before  the  stress  and  turmoil  have  begun, 

Grant  me  one  hour, 
One  hour  of  golden  dalliance  in  the  sun, 

The  fair,  sole  dower 
To  hold  forever  close  against  my  breast, 

And  so  forever  rest 
In  happy  knowledge  that  joy  has  been  mine; 

That  in  my  veins  like  wine 
Has  run  the  glamour  of  the  sunlight's  glow; 

That  winds  so  soft  and  low 
Have  brought  me  fragrance  of  the  distant  brine, 

Or  honey-sweet  amid  the  Spring-touched  trees 
Have  swept  the  scent  of  these 

Unto  my  eager  senses,  till  I  seem 
A  part  of  my  own  dream, 

My  dream  of  youth 
And  nature's  flowering, 

Life,  let  me  sing ! 

41 


Wilt  thou  not  stand  aside 

Until  with  all  the  fair  world's  gifts  allied 
I  shall  have  armor  of  delight  to  bring 

Against  the  fierce,  hot  sting 
Of  thine  assault  when  that  dread  day  shall  come? 

I  promise  thee,  O  Life,  I  shall  be  dumb, 
Nor  utter  one  reproach,  if  only  now 

I  may  go  forth  with  gay  uplifted  brow 
And  meet  my  golden  hour  of  happy  fate — 

Life,  wilt  thou  wait? 

I  am  no  coward — when  the  trumpet  calls, 

Valiant,  my   feet    shall    climb    the    crumbling 

walls, 
My  breast  be  bared  to  hail  of  shot  and  shell; 

But  now,  while  all  is  well, 
Let  me  hold  fast 

To  this  sweet  hour  that  it  shall  ever  last, 
A  hostage  for  the  future  and  the  fight 

Thus  when  the  darkness  comes  and  clash  of 

arms 
And  all  my  soul  is  sick  with  fierce  alarms, 

The  healing  light, 
The  peace  of  what  has  been, 

Shall  guide  me  through  the  din, 
42 


And  pledge  me  promise  of  what  is  to  be; 

Thus  may  I  see 
My  happy  hour  once  more  restored  to  me, 

Transfigured,  dim,  perchance,  yet  glorified 
Although  with  Death  allied ! 

So  be  it,  then — if  now, 
Stern  Life,  if  thou 

Wilt  wait  a  little  while, 
And  let  me  smile ! 


43 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE 

A  A  7HY  should  I  linger  in  these  cramping  walls 
*  »     And  yield  my  being  to  their  dull  constraint  ? 
Why  should  I  bow  before  this  dread  disease 
That  creeps  so  slowly  through  my  languid  limbs 
That  it  may  never  reach  my  burning  heart 
Before  it  kills  the  fire  of  my  brain, 
And  leaves  me  with  half -blurred,  unseeing  eyes? 
Surely  no  gracious  God  has  so  decreed, 
No  God  whose  name  is  Love.     Love  could  not  work 
For  the  beloved  such  a  dire  fate — 
To  meet  the  impotence  of  yielding  flesh, 
To  feel  the  flickering  of  waning  sense, 
And  yet,  to  know  that  years  unending  stretch 
In  dim  succession  ere  all  life  decay. 
I  am  no  coward — I  could  bear  even  that, 
If,  by  my  living,  I  could  ease  one  pain 
Of  one  I  love,  or  shield  a  single  heart 
To  whom  I  owe  a  crumb  of  fealty. 
But  in  the  watches  of  the  long  black  night 

44 


I  take  account  of  each  and  every  one, 
And  can  but  see  them  better  for  the  deed 
Which  I  do  purpose  ere  another  dawn. 
They  who  are  young  can  have  no  need  of  me, 
For  what  has  youth  to  do  with  such  as  I? 
Youth  with  its  splendid,  gay  inconsequence — 
Its  laughter  in  the  very  eyes  of  fate, 
Its  daring  in  the  face  of  destiny- 
Youth    reaches    for    the    glove    that    Life    throws 

down 

And,  smiling,  flings  it  back  with  unconcern. 
I  know,  for  I,  too,  picked  the  gauntlet  up, 
Although  my  youth  was  riddled  through  \vith 

age— 

The  premature,  sad  age  that  comes  with  care, 
And  cruel  disillusion  with  a  world 
That  turns  a  cheap,  inglorious,  shallow  cheek 
To  many  a  valiant  and  resentful  heart. 

Why  should  we  dread  this  door  that  we  call  Death— 
'Tis  but  the  other  end  of  Life,  we  know- 
Birth  at  one  end,  we  may  not  understand, 
Death  at  the  other  end,  unfathomed  too — 
Why  should  we  fear  to  meet  it,  when  our  day 
Of  use  in  this  strange  world  is  past  and  gone? 

45 


I  read  of  one  who  in  the  Antarctic  cold 

Wandered  apart  to  die,  because  he  felt 

Himself  a  hindrance  rather  than  a  help, 

With  weight  of  sickness  and  of  suffering — 

And  all  the  world  cried,  "Gallant,  selfless  one!" 

And  yet,  because  I  lie  within  four  walls 

I  may  be  deemed  a  cowrard,  though  my  heart 

Has  struggled  long,  to  choose  the  nobler  way — 

I,  too,  am  selfless,  nor  will  courage  fail — 

Full  armored  then,  I  greet  my  comrade,  Death ! 


46 


LIFE,    A    QUESTION? 

TIFE?  and  worth  living? 

*— '  Yes,  with  each  part  of  us— 

Hurt  of  us,  help  of  us,  hope  of  us,  heart  of  us, 

Life  is  worth  living. 

Ah !  with  the  whole  of  us, 

Will  of  us,  brain  of  us,  senses  and  soul  of  us. 

Is  life  worth  living? 

Aye,  with  the  best  of  us, 

Heights  of  us,  depths  of  us, — 

Life  is  the  test  of  us ! 


47 


SOLUTION 

T   ASKED  you  if  you  loved  me  as  of  old, 

*   And  in  your  eyes  I  read  a  questioning, 

As  though  you  feared  your  ardor  had  grown  cold, 

And  Love  no  more  were  such  a  wondrous  thing; 

But  even  as  I  searched  that  look,  my  own 

Reached  to  the  vision  you  have  never  known. 

\ 

And  so,  through  all  your  doubt,  my  seeing  soul 
Smiled,  for  it  knew  you  could  not  fathom  love, 
For  none  have  scaled  the  heights  nor  dreamed  the 

whole, 

Till  Death's  blank  silence  comes  the  test  to  prove — 
Had  I  not  met  its  echoless  despair, 
How  could  I  know  that  your  deep  love  was  there? 

But  I  have  walked  with  that  grim  comrade,  Pain, 
And  yearned  with  baffled  longing  for  a  word 
That  lips,  once  joyous,  may  not  speak  again 

48 


To  happy  ears  that  knew  not  what  they  heard— 
I,  who  have  anguished  through  the  endless  night, 
Can  measure  all  your  love  for  me  aright ! 

And  so  I  know  if  I  should  pass  away, 

The  question  in  your  eyes  would  pass  with  me; 

If  I  should  die  before  another  day, 

Your  heart  would  bleed  for  mine  as  poignantly 

As  though  we  had  been  severed  in  the  Spring 

Of  our  great  passion's  pregnant  blossoming. 

Death  shall  interpret  what  Life  may  not  see, 
And  eyes  that  bless  our  own  with  love  and  laughter 
Are  only  fully  prized  when  mystery 
Curtains  the  present  from  the  dim  hereafter. 
What  fruitless,  fond  assurance  you  would  give, 
If  I  were  dead,  and  words  could  make  me  live ! 


49 


A    KENTUCKY    GRAVE 

HPHERE  lies  a  lonely  grave  beneath  tall  trees 

*     In  that  fair  State  where  birds  afire  flash 
Above  the  azure-purpled  waves  of  grass. 
Upon  the  nameless  stone  is  but  a  date, 
Mid- June,  when  all  Kentucky's  loveliness 
Was  at  its  full,  and  on  a  year  before 
The  cruel  war  had  ravaged  the  sweet  South. 
But  though  no  word  is  on  the  barren  stone, 
The  legend  runs  that  one  both  fair  and  young — 
Ah !  passing  fair  and  brimmed  with  eager  youth- 
Lies  cold  and  still  and  nameless  'neath  the  sod. 
For  in  that  year  the  old-time  hostelry, 
That  still  stands  by  the  mound  where  she  is  laid, 
Was  gay  with  dance,  and  song,  and  revelry, 
And  all  the  Blue  Grass  State  had  gathered  there 
As  they  were  wont  to  do  in  other  days. 
On  that  warm  mid-June  night,  all  suddenly, 
She  stood  within  the  hall,  while  her  dark  maid 
With  coal-black  hands  unloosed  the  fleecy  cloak, 
And  every  eye  was  drawn  unto  the  gleam 

50 


Of  jewels  at  her  waist  and  round  her  throat 
That  seemed  a  lily,  dew-dropped  in  the  dawn. 
Her  strange  dark  eyes  were  flashing  jewels,  too, 
Set  in  the  pallor  of  her  dreamy  face 
That  turned  to  one  as  though  his  life  was  hers. 
Now,  as  the  rhythmic  music  of  the  dance 
Fell  on  her  ears,  her  eyes  sought  his  and  sank 
Into  their  depths  as  one  who  drowning  steeps 
His  failing  memory  in  things  best  loved— 
Then  slowly  to  the  soft  and  sensuous  sound 
Of  flute  and  viol  and  of  violin, 
They  floated  in  a  circled  harmony; 
And  in  her  eyes  one  saw  the  love  that  leaned 
And  lavished  everything,  and  on  her  lips 
An  evanescent  smile  that  came  and  went. 
She  seemed  a  pure  white  flame  of  loveliness  ! 
********* 

The  music  ceased,  and  as  the  last  sweet  note 
Wafted  away  to  star-lit  depths  of  June, 
She  sank,  and  swooned  in  sinking,  to  the  floor 
And  died,  without  a  murmur,  in  his  arms. 
They  laid  her  on  a  snow-white  couch,  and  left 
Her  weeping  woman  crouching  at  her  feet, 
And  her  dark  lover  kneeling  with  her  hand — 
Listless  as  lily  when  the  dew  is  gone — 

51 


Clasped  in  his  own  to  watch  the  weary  night. 
But  when  the  dawn  broke,  lo !  they  found  her  there 
In  utter  loneliness,  for  both  had  fled ! 
So  runs  the  story — none  have  ever  heard 
More  than  these  lines  have  told,  and  thus  the  stone 
Bears  nothing  on  it  but  the  lonely  date, 
And  all  who  come  must  listen  to  the  tale. 
********* 

One,  learning  of  the  legend,  lays  a  rose 
Upon  the  mound  and  leaves  the  gift  of  tears 
To  keep  its  petals  fresh,  because  of  grief 
That  one  so  young  should  perish  ere  the  bud 
Had  fully  flowered  in  its  blossoming. 
Ah,  happy  heart  that  weeps  at  such  a  fate ! 

But  still  another  comes,  with  laggard  step 
And  eyes  opaque  from  disillusion's  blow, 
Whose  lips  once  long  ago  knew  laughter  well, 
Now  parched  with  pallid  parody  of  mirth 
And  curved  with  scorn  that  any  pity  one 
Who  never  can  know  aught  but  Youth  and  Faith — 
Ah,  bitter  heart  that  smiles  at  such  a  fate ! 

And  we  who  ponder  on  the  twice-told  tale, 
Shall  we  then  laugh,  or  weep,  or  turn  aside, 


Perchance,  and  envy  her?     Had  she  not  lived— 
She  who  had  loved,  and  danced,  and  dreamed,  and 

died, 

Like  some  resplendent  butterfly  that  wings 
To  immortality  in  one  brief  hour ! 


53 


LOVE    IS    A    TALENT 

JOVE  is  a  talent,  like  the  gift  of  song 
-*— '  That  thrills  its  cadenced  passion  on  the  ear, 
So  Love,  with  harmony  as  rich  and  clear 
Strikes  on  the  chord  of  Life,  a  vibrant,  strong, 
Full  note,  that  turns  to  right  the  cruel  wrong, 
That  lifts  the  lonely,  stills  the  starting  tear, 
Heals  the  bruised  heart  and  casteth  out  all  fear 
With  peace  that  only  can  to  Love  belong. 

But  if  the  singer  sing  not,  then  the  high, 
Sweet  resonance  shall  harsh  and  tuneless  fall — 
Thus  Love,  if  only  garnered  and  not  given, 
Of  its  own  atrophy  must  droop  and  die— 
The  dowered  of  Love  must  lean  and  lavish  all 
Their  boon  on  Earth,  their  Sesame  to  Heaven ! 


54 


IF    I    WERE    NOT    SO    YOUNG 

TF  I  were  not  so  young,  the  vistaed  years 

Had  not  for  me  such  pale,  perspective  dread, 
For  I  could  turn,  beneath  this  veil  of  tears, 
To  swift  reunion  with  my  longed-for  Dead— 
But  Youth  is  mine,  and  all  its  baffled  fires 
Burn  fiercely  on  within  my  ravaged  breast, 
And  all  its  ardent,  innocent  desires 
Defiant  still  their  heritage  attest. 
My  blurred,   blank   gaze   that   once    was    wont   to 

shine 
With    prescient    glow    in    what    fair    Time    should 

bring, 

Now  scans  Life's  far  and  faint  horizon  line 
Knowing  that  Death  alone  shall  hold  no  sting — 
My  dumb  despair,  when  it  can  find  a  tongue, 
May  only  falter,  "Were  I  not  so  young!" 


55 


LOVE'S    ARREARS 

T  WAS  in  love  with  life  and  then  I  died— 

*   Because  I  lost  the  thing  that  I  loved  best. 

In  my  embittered  soul  with  arid  zest 

Sad  disillusion,  with  fierce  hate  allied, 

Battled  with  murdered  love  and  wounded  pride; 

And  harsh  resentment,  harbored  in  my  breast, 

Festered  the  wound  in  my  dead  soul,  till  Rest 

Even  the  Rest  of  Death  could  not  abide. 

My  holier  self  in  grief  unholy  lost 

Struggled  to  win  my  soul  from  sullen  shame 

And  lift  my  eyes  through  sacrificial  tears, 

But  though  I  proudly  paid  the  crucial  cost 

I  wept  for  Love's  dear  sake  and  Love's  fair  fame 

And  died  again  before  lost  Love's  arrears. 


56 


WHICH  ? 

A  A  TE  ask  that  Love  shall  rise  to  the  divine, 
*  *     And  yet  we  crave  him  very  human,  too; 
Our  hearts  would  drain  the  crimson  of  his  wine, 
Our  souls  despise  him  if  he  prove  untrue ! 
Poor  Love !  I  hardly  see  what  you  can  do ! 
We  know  all  human  things  are  weak  and  frail, 
And  yet  we  claim  that  very  part  of  you, 
Then,  inconsistent,  blame  you  if  you  fail. 
When  you  would  soar,  'tis  we  who  clip  your  wings, 
Although  we  weep  because  you  faint  and  fall. 
Alas  !  it  seems  we  want  so  many  things, 
That  no  dear  love  could  ever  grant  them  all ! 
Which  shall  we  choose,  the  human,  or  divine, 
The  crystal  stream,  or  yet  the  crimson  wine? 


57 


IN    PRISON 

OHE  is  a  murderess?     Nay,  it  is  not  true — 

^  Such  eyes,  such  gentle  eyes,  such  loving  eyes, 

And  then  her  smile — it  is  so  gentle,  too. 

You  held  her  poor  hard  hands,  and  spoke  to  her 

In  tender  tones,  as  mother  to  a  child, 

And  she,  with  quick-caught  breath,  cried:  "Anna's 

good; 

So  good,  dear  lady,  always  as  you  wish." 
And  with  those  same  adoring,  pleading  eyes 
She  seemed  to  drink  your  kind,  protecting  smile. 
We  gave  her  flowers,  gay  with  Autumn  sun, 
That  we  had  plucked  in  freedom,  and  the  thought 
Stabbed  in  my  heart.    She  murmured  little  words, 
In  that  soft  tongue  that  poets  love  so  well, 
And  pressed  the  blossoms  to  her  patient  breast. 
So  then  we  left  her  by  her  grated  cell, 
Hearing  the  prison  door  with  dubious  clang 
Swing  back  behind  us.     Oh !  the  sunset  light 
Never  had  colors  that  were  so  divine, 

58 


Never  was  riotous  wind  so  fresh  and  free, 

And  the  pale  moon  was  shining  dimly,  too, 

As  though  fair  nature  held  high  carnival 

Of  all  her  beauty;  lavish  in  her  gifts 

That  we  might  know  the  contrast  of  our  joy 

To  that  poor  inarticulate  sister's  fate. 

A  murderess?     Then  you  told  me — and  the  tale 

Sent  the  hot  blood  in  torrents  to  my  head 

Until  my  eyes  were  blinded  with  her  pain. 

They  had  been  boy  and  girl  in  Italy, 

Had  danced  and  sung  together  by  the  shore, 

And  she  was  always  his,  had  never  known 

Father  or  mother,  and  the  priest  had  smiled 

Because  their  pennies  were  too  few  to  give 

That  he  should  bind  them  with  a  marriage  vow ! 

But  she  was  her  Luigi's,  he  was  hers — 

And  when  his  gay,  adventurous  spirit  willed, 

She  followed  him  to  this  far  land  of  ours — 

"We  think  we  find  much  gold,  and  make  our  home," 

She  said,  and  then  a  glory  swept  her  face. 

She  told  of  how  he  worked,  and  every  day 

She    brought    with    her    own    hands — ah !    patient 

toil- 

The  stones  with  which  to  build  the  little  house. 
And  so  it  grew  with  all  the  long,  hard  days 

59 


Till  one  Spring  morning,  lo  !  the  home  was  done. 

She  was  so  tired  that  her  eyes  were  dim, 

Her  once  straight  body  twisted  out  of  shape 

With  heavy  loads,  but  all  her  heart  was  glad — 

Now  it  was  done  and  she  could  rest  awhile. 

And  then  he  came.     Looking  her  in  the  eyes, 

Laughing,  he  said:  "This  home  is  not  for  you — 

You  are  grown  old  and  ugly — Anna,  go — 

A  fair  young  girl  will  share  this  home  with  me." 

Dumb,  like  a  stricken  dog,  she  turned  and  went — 

He  was  Luigi,  and  she  must  obey ! 

She  hardly  knew  what  happened  after  that, 

She  had  not  died,  it  is  so  hard  to  die — 

Yes,  she  had  worked  and  earned  her  daily  bread — 

And    days    went    by — days    pass    when    souls    are 

dead- 
Just  as  they  pass  when  hearts  are  full  of  song— 
And  so  a  laggard  year  dragged  to  its  close. 
The  Spring  had  come  again — the  gracious  Spring ! 
When  all  the  earth  is  redolent  with  joy— 
And  happiness  the  birthright  of  each  heart. 
Ah !  but  the  Spring  has  bitter  pain  for  one 
Who  dreads  its  coming,  fears  the  long  sweet  days 
Fashioned  for  bursting  blossoms  and  for  love. 
All  suddenly  she  came  to  life  again— 

60 


She,  who  had  died  that  day  the  year  before. 
Her  home,  the  little  home  her  hands  had  made, 
Surely  it  could  not  hurt  Luigi  if 
She    looked    once    more    at    what    her    toil    had 

wrought ! 

Her  hurrying  feet  could  hardly  carry  her, 
So  eager  was  she.     In  her  weary  brain 
There  was  no  thought  of  evil,  only  thirst, 
For  that  sweet  past  consumed  her  like  a  flame.— 
There  was  the  porch,  and  on  it  was  a  girl, 
Young  as  she  once  had  been,  with  curling  hair 
Falling  on  cheek  and  breast,  and  in  her  arms 
A  dark-eyed  baby  clinging  to  that  breast; 
She  leaned  across  the  railing  and  she  laughed— 
Luigi,  too,  had  laughed  a  year  ago ! — 
And  laughing,  called  in  shrill  and  taunting  tones: 
"You  are  the  woman  that  Luigi  kept 
Until  you  grew  too  old — you  had  no  child 
To  bind  his  love.     Look  what  I've  given  him." 
She  laughed  again;  mocking,  she  held  the  babe 
As  though  to  give  it  into  Anna's  arms— 
Those  arms  that  knew  Luigi's,  and  had  clung 
In  love's  first  ecstasy  around  his  neck 
In  primitive  passion.     Now  that  love,  betrayed, 
Called  on  the  savage  that  is  in  us  all, 

61 


Caught  at  her  broken  heart,  her  blazing  brain 

A  flash  of  steel,  and  the  dread  deed  was  done 

What  wonder?     Ah,  the  pity  of  it  all! 

Twelve  years  of  prison,  did  you  say,  twelve  years 
Have  passed  already  in  that  little  cell? 
A  life-long  sentence,  but  commuted  now, 
Because  of  good  behavior  ?     Ah  !  those  eyes — 
Such  tender,  quiet,  sad,  beseeching  eyes- 
Eyes  of  a  murderess!     And  the  man  is  free! 


GOD'S    FAIR    WORLD 

JX  some  old  book  I  read  a  legend  quaint 
"•   Of  one  who  wandered  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
One  who  had  sinned  and  suffered,  turned  a  saint- 
He  never  looked  upon  their  like  again. 

His  eyes  drawn  inward,  shriving  his  sad  soul 
By  counting  over  the  monotonous  bead, 
He  put  away  the  joy  of  nature's  whole- 
Musing  upon  his  own  poor,  trivial  deed. 

Nor  would  he  look  upon  the  glad  sun  rise 
Shedding  a  hope  reborn  adown  the  day, 
He  dared  not  glory  in  the  sunset  skies 
But  ever  turned  his  eyes  within,  to  pray. 

Year  after  year  behind  his  narrow  wall 
In  garb  of  monk  with  crucifix  on  breast, 
His  head  averted  from  the  sight  of  all, 
He  built  his  pathway  to  eternal  rest. 

63 


And  when  his  time  was  come,  with  faith  assured 
He  met  his  hour  with  longing  satisfied, 
Content  that  God  should  know  what  he  endured; 
Alone  as  he  had  lived,  alone  he  died. 

Swift  to  the  gate  of  Heaven,  the  legend  ran, 

His  soul  was  wafted.     Peter,  at  the  gate, 

Spake    but    this    word,    "Loved    you    your    fellow 

man?" 
And  led  him  to  the  throne  where  suppliants  wait. 

And  there,  so  runs  the  tale,  the  God  of  Love 
In  majesty  upon  his  throne  empearled 
Leaned  to  the  saint  and  said,  from  heights  above: 
"What  did  you  think,  O  man,  of  my  fair  world?" 

Kneeling,  the  saint  turned  sinner,  humbly  prayed: 
"  O  Lord,  my  selfish  eyes  were  blind  with  pain; 
I  knew  not  your  fair  world;  I  was  afraid — 
Grant  me  to  serve  my  fellow  man  again!" 


64 


GETHSEMANE 

A  LONE  we  kneel  in  our  Gethsemane 
^^  And  blame  our  brother  that  he  watcheth  not ! 
We  crave  not  him  but  drain  his  sympathy, 
All  but  our  own  fierce  grief  have  we  forgot. 
We  cry,  "Canst  thou  not  watch  with  us  one  hour?" 
And,  yet,  aloof,  we  bow,  a  thing  apart. 
Grief-scarred,  we  have  nor  wish,  nor  will,  nor  power 
To  clasp  our  brother  to  our  bleeding  heart. 
He  who  was  closest  may  not  reach  the  soul, 
Shrouded  and  veiled,  by  anguish  felled  and  slain; 
How  can  he  watch,  unfainting,  when  the  whole 
That  once  was  his  responds  to  naught  but  pain? 
We  blame  our  brother,  yet  it  is  not  he, 
But  our  dead  heart  that  makes  Gethsemane ! 


65 


SPRING    AND    GRIEF 

T   SEE  my  love  in  every  little  child 

*  Whose  eyes  meet  mine  with  laughter  in  their 

blue; 

I  hear  him  in  the  note,  half  sweet,  half  wild, 
When  bird  calls  bird  their  promise  to  renew; 
I  feel  him  in  the  ardor  of  the  sun 
That  woos  the  fragrance  from  the  waking  flower, 
And  maple  buds,  rose  flushed  by  beauty,  won 
To  swift  fulfilment  of  the  Sun  God's  power. 
The  world  is  young  once  more  as  he  was  young, 
With  life  and  love  reborn  in  everything— 

0  singing  hearts !     My  own  is  faint  and  wrung; 
The  rapture  and  the  riot  of  the  Spring 

Can  but  enhance  the  throb  of  my  despair— 

1  miss  him  most  when  joy  is  everywhere! 


66 


AUTUMN    AND    GRIEF 

T^HE  short  dark  day,  the  chill  of  sombre  skies, 

*     Are  far  less  poignant  to  my  brooding  heart 
Than  Spring  with  all  her  pregnant  mysteries, 
And  promises  in  which  he  has  no  part. 
Autumn  is  kind  to  one  whose  soul  must  weep, 
While  radiant  Spring  with  callous  cruelty 
Awakens  every  longing  that  would  sleep, 
To  stir  once  more  the  joy  that  was  to  be. 
Autumn !     You  are  the  healer,  for  in  truth 
You  seem  to  say,  all  things  must  change  and  die. 
Spring  slays  me  with  the  memory  of  his  youth, 
Cheats  me  with  happiness  that  passed  me  by— 
But  Autumn  murmurs,  with  pale  lips  and  cold, 
"Death  alone  spares  us,  for  we  soon  grow  old!" 


67 


MOTHERHOOD 

T   SOMETIMES  think  because  at  first  I  shrank, 
*   And  in  my  girlish  heart  rebelled,  that  I 
Should  face  again  the  long  and  weary  months, 
'Twas  just  for  that  as  well  as  other  things 
That  when  he  came  I  could  not  love  enough. 
But  long  before  the  day  my  doubt  had  passed, 
The  child  had  leaped  within  me  and  I  knew 
The  sweet  and  holy  joy  of  sacred  things. 
And  so  my  hour  came,  and,  fierce  and  long, 
I  battled  for  his  life  in  agony, 
A  wheel  of  fire  in  my  shattered  back 
And  all  my  being  crucified  with  pain. 
Then  suddenly,  as  though  by  earthquake  rent, 
The  world  went  black  with  torture,  and  I  knew 
That  my  cry  mingled  with  another's  cry 
So  faint  I  hardly  heard,  and  yet  I  thrilled 
To  know  the  anguish  gone,  because  once  more 
A  man  child  had  been  born  to  this  strange  earth. 

68 


There,  as  I  lay,  exhausted,  I  rejoiced 
That  I  had  known  the  whole,  each  primal  pang 
That  any  squaw  might  feel  beneath  the  bush- 
That  I  had  proved  myself  what  women  were 
Who  brought  the  pioneers  into  the  world, 
The  virile  men  who  conquered  wood  and  plain, 
For  I  had  never  murmured  till  the  last 
Great  wrench  of  nature  brought  my  body's  fruit, 
Perchance  because  of  all  this  poignancy, 
I  loved  him  with  a  love  so  deep  and  strong 
As  though  'twere  born  of  elemental  things; 
But  then,  I  lay  within  the  darkened  room 
Content  to  float  upon  a  seeming  mist, 
So  very  quiet,  almost  in  a  dream — 
The  calm  and  placid  days  slipped  softly  by, 
Those  days  of  sweet  seclusion,  when  the  world 
Seemed  very  far  away,  when  even  love, 
Except  the  love  I  bore  my  little  one, 
Was  quite  a  thing  apart,  though  hovering  near 
And  guarding  me  from  care,  a  loyal  shield 
That  locked  my  chamber  door  to  all  but  peace, 
So  still  I  lay,  till  he  would  come  to  me; 
Then  I  would  hold  him  closely  to  my  breast 
Against  the  sheltered  haven  of  my  heart, 
And  feel  that  God  was  in  His  Heaven  high. 

69 


Sometimes  I  took  him  in  my  happy  arms 

And  scanned  the  little  face  and  touched  the  hair, 

The  fair  soft  hair,  and  looked  into  the  eyes 

That  were  my  father's  in  their  shining  blue — 

One  of  my  father's  race,  ah !  it  was  so — 

For  as  he  grew  to  childhood  I  could  see 

The  very  traits  I  loved,  the  joy  of  life, 

The  gay,  bright  heart,  the  sweet  simplicity, 

The  love  and  courage  and  the  fierce  contempt 

For  one  who  could  be  cruel  to  the  weak — 

And  even  as  he  grew  my  passion  grew, 

For  we  were  one  in  heart  and  very  soul — 

His  spirit  lifted  me,  and  all  my  sky 

Was  filled  with  light  if  he  were  only  near. 

Life  seemed  so  sweet  for  him,  and  so  for  me 

With  every  perfect  thing  that  it  could  bring. 

But  suddenly,  a  bolt  from  out  the  blue 
Fell,  and  my  heart  was  dead,  for  he  was  dead ! 
The  pangs  I  suffered  when  I  gave  him  birth 
Were  only  in  my  weak  and  pliant  flesh, 
But  when  he  died  it  was  my  heart  was  torn, 
My  passionate  heart  that  seemed  a  living  thing, 
That  loved  with  love  that  was  affinity— 
The  one  affinity  that  cannot  fail. 

70 


Just  as  the  world  went  black  when  he  was  born, 

So  blacker  far  it  went  when  he  was  dead, 

For  my  strong  heart  was  shattered  by  the  blow. 

Thus,  though  I  know  that  I  have  many  joys, 

And  though  I  greet  the  beauty  of  the  Spring, 

And  welcome  Summer  with  its  golden  days, 

The  glory  is  departed  from  the  earth 

Because  he  is  not  part  of  this  same  Spring, 

Because  the  Summer  and  its  golden  days 

Can  never  more  be  seen  through  his  dear  eyes. 

And  though  the  Autumn  with  its  rich  red  glow 

Awakens  a  response  within  my  breast, 

I  cannot  laugh  as  once  I  laughed  with  him, 

When  riding  neck  and  neck  across  the  hills 

Into  the  glory  of  the  dying  day  ! 

Ah !  no,  the  chill  of  Winter  holds  me  fast, 

For  he  was  the  fair  flower  of  my  youth. 

But  even  with  the  anguish  that  is  mine, 

I  could  not  wish  that  it  should  ever  pass, 

For  it  is  but  the  other  side  of  joy, 

And  I  must  meet  it  as  I  met  the  pangs 

Of  that  fierce  birth  that  brought  me  my  delight  - 

The  essence  of  the  part  that  is  divine, 

The  perfect  joy  of  perfect  motherhood. 


71 


AFTER 

T  HAVE  lived  and  rejoiced  in  the  living, 
1   I  have  loved  and  accepted  the  pain, 
I  have  given  for  joy  of  the  giving 
And  counted  the  gift  as  a  gain- 
Like  music  that  melts  into  laughter, 
And  laughter  that  trembles  to  tears, 
I  have  waked  every  chord — but  hereafter 
How  mute  are  the  years ! 

They  are  dim  with  the  fear  of  forgetting, 

And  numb  with  a  joy  that  is  cold, 

They  are  wan  from  a  sun  that  is  setting, 

And  blank  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

No  thrill  in  the  rush  of  the  river, 

No  throb  in  the  hush  of  the  seas, 

In  the  wound  of  Grief's  guarding,  no  quiver. 

For  drained  are  Life's  lees! 


FEAR 


DEAST  in  the  jungle,  ready,  crouched  to  spring; 
*-*  The  spawn  of  sorrow,  and  the  price  of  pain; 
Lurking  in  shadow,  dark  and  evil  thing, 
Waiting  to  claim  my  craven  heart  again. 

Grief  slew  my  joy,  and  bore  it  far  away, 
And  left  me  in  its  place  this  barren  blight 
That  turns  the  gold  of  morning  to  the  gray 
And  haunting  terror  of  the  murky  night; 

Fear  that  the  ones  I  love  shall  anguish  too, 

Fear  for  the  heart  red-hot,  the  heart  turned  cold, 

Fear  of  the  grief,  the  blinding  grief  I  knew, 

Fear  of  the  shortening  day,  the  years  grown  old. 

God  of  my  Fathers,  from  thy  throne  above, 
Lean  in  thy  tenderness,  and  draw  me  near,— 
Teach  me,  O  gracious  Lord,  the  perfect  love, — 
The  perfect  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear ! 

73 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  I 
BERKELEY 

,ms  BOOK  IS  DTJlToN  THE  LAST  DATE 
MA]fBD  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are         . ]  increasmg 

-"""  *w  fhlld  d        8    ,      Books  not  •« 


AP8  28  1828 


AU(J   19    1930 


20m-l,'22 


34358? 

I   V>~ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


